Black Lion’s Bride (Warrior Trilogy #2)

Chapter 28

The king looked up with alarm when Sebastian was granted entry to the heavily-guarded chamber deep in the heart of the palace encampment. Richard had been seated on a cushioned divan, with a dozen attendants and bodyguards hanging about him like useless gargoyles. Now the king rose at the center of those watchdogs, standing tall with some effort on unusually shaky legs. His prolonged ill health from campaigning had weakened him, but Sebastian supposed it was this recent brush with death that had him pasty-faced and trembling beneath his voluminous purple robes.

He summoned Sebastian forward with a wave of his bejeweled hand. “Tell me,” he said. “It was as you suspected? An assassin?”

Sebastian gave a grim nod.

“The woman?” asked the king.

“It was she, my lord.”

Lionheart cleared his throat and glanced away from Sebastian's level gaze, chagrined, evidently, to have been caught so neatly in what might have proven a deadly indiscretion. Possibly, he was more humbled to have been warned of the danger by the very man he would have deceived. “Leave us,” he said to his guards and minions.

In an obedient shuffle of booted feet and shifting armor, the men filed out of the room and into an adjacent antechamber to provide a less immediate measure of security and await the king's further requirements. When they had gone and closed the door behind them, Richard let out a heavy sigh .

“Perhaps I owe you an apology for my recent dealings with the woman, Montborne—I am aware you had some fondness for her.” When Sebastian said nothing, merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, the king continued. “Be that as it may, I cannot help thinking that in some way this little discovery, unpleasant though it was, has in fact turned out to be a boon for us both. I am all the wiser for having escaped harm tonight, and you have been spared making an even graver mistake in letting yourself get any more attached to the treacherous chit.”

“Your logic is indisputable, my lord,” Sebastian replied, bowing his head and taking care to show none of his emotion where Zahirah was concerned. The king was right, after all. It was good that he learned of her duplicity now, before he made a greater fool of himself by asking for permission to take her back to England. Before he did the idiotic and costly thing of petitioning the king for special license to wed her.

He nearly laughed aloud at that thought. What a distant, ridiculous dream it was now. Nay, worse than a dream; it was a bloody farce, made all the more pitiful for the way he wanted to cling to it still. After everything she had done to him, after all the lies. Even after the events of this night, he wanted her still.

“You know,” said the king, “Ascalon was Samson's city, long ago. It was here that he met Delilah, where he slew a thousand men and met his ultimate destruction—all for the love of one treacherous woman who would shear him of his power and use him for her own designs. You were fortunate. All your Delilah took from you was your pride.” When Sebastian looked up, Lionheart was smiling. “But I warrant you will win that back soon enough. You'll have your revenge when she swings at the end of a rope for her crimes. Unless you've already taken the pleasure of cutting out her infidel heart.”

“No, sire.” Sebastian held the king's questioning gaze. “I did not kill her. I did not arrest her.”

“What are you saying?” There was a note of outrage percolating in the king's voice, his previous tremors of distress replaced with a sudden firming of his stance. His jaw rose along with his tawny brows. “Where is the woman now?”

“She is gone, sire. Once she was discovered, she threw down her weapon and she fled.”

Lionheart looked as if he might explode. He coughed instead, a deep hacking rattle. “She fled,” he slowly repeated once he had regained himself. Accusation began to darken his eyes. “Well, then. How disappointed you must have been at that. Let us pray she does not elude capture again.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sebastian replied, knowing that he should be fearing the king's certain reprimand, but instead calculating the time Zahirah would have had to make her escape from the palace grounds.

The king stared for a long moment, then he slammed his fist against the back of the divan. “Guards!” he shouted, his summons inciting a jumble of urgency in the other room. The lot of his armed attendants hustled in to heed his call. “There is a fugitive woman on the loose somewhere in this city—an assassin. Find her. I want her apprehended at once. Go to it. Now!”

The knights jumped into action, rushing past Sebastian and out the chamber door. They clopped like a pack of horses in the corridor as they ran to do their king's bidding. They had little hope of catching Zahirah; Sebastian had waited to bring the king his report of her escape until he had given her ample time to leave the palace grounds. By now, if she were as quick as she were clever, she would be well on her way out of Ascalon—hopefully heading deep into the craggy hills for cover.

Here in the lamp-lit room of the palace, with the echo of his soldiers' boot falls dying away in the hall, Richard clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace like a caged, agitated cat.

“Tonight marks the second occasion you have saved my life, Montborne. More, if I think back and count the number of times we've been stirrup-to-stirrup in battle. I am indebted, but I am also your king and commander. Letting that girl go, whatever your reasons, was an act of defiance against me. Against my orders.”

At the king's pause somewhere to the left of him, Sebastian said, “Yes, my lord.”

“It is not my preference to be beholden to any man, so I will give you a boon now and this debt between us will be done. In light of your past service, until we return home to England, I will refrain from considering further reprisals where your properties are concerned, however, effective immediately, you are relieved of your command here. Your rank shall be reduced to that of foot soldier, under the officer of my choosing.”

If he wanted Sebastian to plead for appeal, the king would get no such satisfaction tonight. Sebastian was in no mind to beg or bargain, not even if Montborne itself hung in the balance. He accepted the king's mercy—such as it was—with a respectful bow of his head. “As you wish, my lord. I thank you for your benevolence.”

Lionheart grunted. “Very well, then. Remove yourself from these chambers. You have my leave, sir.”

Sebastian pivoted on his heel and quit the king's temporary quarters, stalking past a duo of new knights who stood on post in the hall outside the door—common knights he had once commanded, now, suddenly, his equal. He told himself that he did not care. He had thrown away much this night: his office, his pride, perhaps even his land and titles when all was said and done.

He had thrown it all away on a lady who was no lady. A Delilah, just as the king had said. Zahirah was every bit as conniving and dangerous as the villainess of that Bible tale, and he no less a fool than blind and broken Samson, shorn of his strength for trusting her, and mad to feel anything but enmity toward her as the world he once knew came crashing down like rubble around him.

~ ~ ~

Zahirah pitched and stumbled through the winding streets of Ascalon's lower city as though in a fog, her head swimming, feet sluggish beneath her as she ran. She was in the shabbier part of town now, where cobbled streets gave way to worn and narrow paths, where crumbling stone houses and dilapidated shacks lurched one against the other, their flat-topped roofs hairy with grass that had taken root in the sand and long gone to seed. Here, whores and drunkards loitered about in every dark corner like rats, slurring and jabbering their filthy talk to anyone who chanced to pass by. Zahirah knew little of this part of town, but she knew enough to guess that the fida'i might have friends here.

She had just one cogent goal as she fled the palace and Sebastian's rightful rage: she had to find her father. She had to find him, and beg him not to blame Sebastian for her failing to slay the English king. She did not know how she would convince him, but she was determined to bargain anything to spare Sebastian, even her own life, if Sinan's fury demanded it.

At the end of a crevice alleyway was a tucked-away tavern, the only source of light to be found in this shadowy underbelly domain. Zahirah headed toward the glow of the establishment's lanterns, stepping over a pair of outstretched legs that lay in her path. The vagabond at her feet roused to mutter something unintelligible as her sandals scuffed past him in the debris of the alley, then he slumped back into his doze.

Two Arab men stood huddled together in hushed conversation outside the tavern; they ceased talking and looked up as Zahirah approached. She must have been a sight, her hair falling out of its braid, her face unveiled and streaked with tears, the wide cuffs of her shalwar soiled and muddied from the filth of the streets. Even bedraggled and in despair, she knew she did not look as though she belonged there. The two men exchanged a glance that seemed to acknowledge that fact, then one of them smiled and Zahirah instantly mourned the loss of her dagger at the palace.

“Hey, pretty, pretty,” said the younger of the two men, the one whose leering grin was giving her gooseflesh.

This close, they smelled of opium and danger, but they were all that stood between Zahirah and the help she might receive on the other side of the tavern door. She could hear the din of loud talking and laughter on the other side of that door, and she was determined to get past these two one way or another.

“I'm looking for someone,” she said. She took a purposeful step forward and reached for the latch. She was stopped, as she fully expected. The smiling man blocked her reach with his body; his friend moved in from the side to knit her in. Zahirah backed away, just a pace, but enough for them to scent her apprehension.

“Where you going, pretty? We've got all you need right here. Come talk with us. We'll make you happy.”

“I'm supposed to meet someone,” she replied, deliberately hedging. “My father. He said to meet him at this tavern. He's probably already waiting for me inside.”

“Down here?” challenged the first man. “At this hour?”

The one on her left chuckled. “If you think he's here, then call him out. Maybe we'll let him play, too.”

Zahirah stood there, factoring out her options, while the two thugs chortled and made jests about what they would do with her whole family. The smiling man began to laugh, his stupid, drug-induced guffaws ringing out in the deserted street. He reached out to grab her arm, all confidence and wolfish amusement. Zahirah seized her chance and struck out, just as she had been trained to do in her many drills at Masyaf.

She grasped his arm as he took hers and yanked him forward, putting him off balance. Her knee came up between his legs, swift and unerring. He howled, but only for a moment. Zahirah gripped his head in the crook of her elbow, and, using her other arm as a lever, wrenched his neck. He dropped in a heap at her feet, dead as dust. When she looked up to deal with his companion, she saw nothing but empty air, the man's fast-retreating feet beating a frantic tattoo down the far end of the alley.

Suddenly, a movement sounded behind her; a hand reached out of the dark. She whirled, ready to meet whatever trouble greeted her next with like malice .

“Mistress, do not be afraid.” It was the vagabond she had stepped over to get to the tavern. He came into the lamplight and she saw that he was no mere drunkard. He was one of her clan, a fida'i agent posted in disguise to watch the streets. That he was here meant her father could not be far.

“Take me to him,” she ordered her kinsman. “I must see my father at once.”

She was brought along another jointed alley, ripe with the stench of offal. There was no light here, only the occasional slice of moonlight and the shadowy form of her fida'i guide to lead her through the slippery darkness beneath her sandals. She covered her nose in her sleeve, and used her other hand to steady her in the narrow walkway that seemed too vile for human habitation. Zahirah knew at once why her father chose this place to headquarter him while in Ascalon; no one but the most determined visitor would venture this far into the bowels of the lower city. Sinan would be as unmolested here as a beetle in a mountain of dung.

Ahead of her some half a dozen paces, crouching low and unassuming at the end of the alley, was a hovel. Like a crone hunched over her kettle, the squat little building rose up from the street in a lump of sandstone and fallen away tile. Zahirah's kinsman paused at the rickety board that served as its door. “Hurry, mistress,” he whispered, rushing her forward as he held the portal open.

She ducked beneath his arm and went into the pit of darkness beyond him. No lamps, no sound, just black silence. She froze where she stood, wondering if she were being led into another trap, but then the fida'i was at her side saying, “This way, mistress. You will see better in a moment.”

Warily, not certain she had any better alternative, she followed the rustle of his robes deeper into the abyss. There was a soft creak of leather hinges from in front of her, then he turned and took her hand. “We are going down now, mistress. Stay close, and mind your step.”

They descended some countless steps, down and down, until the air grew chilly and damp. From somewhere distant came the low howl of the wind. It sounded like a storm was blowing in. Slowly, Zahirah's eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. She saw shapes take form: the arc of crudely hollowed-out stone walls surrounding her, the flat slope of the stairwell below her feet, the slim outline of her guide's shoulders, shrouded in his ragged disguise. And up ahead, what seemed yet a day away, glowed the faintest sliver of light.

A torch burned somewhere before them, the orange flame a wagging beacon. They followed that scant light, and as they drew nearer, above the crashing din outside, Zahirah began to hear voices. Low, Arabic rumbles carried to her ears. She heard her father among them, and weathered a shiver of dread for the news she brought him now.

The stairwell ended abruptly, leveling off to smooth, flat ground. Zahirah's sandals sifted with each step she took, and she realized she was walking in sand. And as she followed her kinsman toward the end of the track, she understood now that the roar of the wind she heard was rather the roar of waves. They were very near the ocean. The deeper they walked into the cave, the heavier the smell of brine; it permeated the air and clung in her nostrils. She sneezed, and the murmur of conversation up ahead came to a quick end. The sudden silence was broken by the sound of weapons hissing out of their scabbards.

“Who goes?” asked a menacing Arabic voice.

“Jalil,” answered Zahirah's companion. “I bring the master's daughter.”

He walked her around a wide bend in the rock, and there before them was Sinan, his trio of bodyguards, and several other men who stood with weapons ready. Fida'i , all of them, and a nervous-looking Muslim man who was the Assassin King's likely patron in the city.

Sinan stared at Zahirah, but he spoke to Jalil. “Your orders were to stand guard and make certain no one found us here. Do you recall these orders? ”

Beside her, the fida'i shifted nervously on his feet. “Yes, master.”

Zahirah felt a chill snake up her spine at the cold look her father turned on his man. At Sinan's back, two of the other assassin guards stepped forward to flank their leader. One of them drew a dagger.

“B-but master,” Jalil stammered. He brought his hands up as if to hold off the advance of Sinan's guards. “She's your daughter. She was in danger. I thought—”

“Yes,” hissed Sinan with lethal calm. “And that was your mistake.” He slid a glance to his men and the two fida'i moved on Jalil.

“Father,” Zahirah cried. “Father, no!”

Too late, and to no avail. With an efficiency she herself had trained for years to perfect, the assassins leapt on Jalil and slit his throat. His blood spilled into the sand where he fell, staining it black as pitch under the dim glow of the lantern.

“Toss him over the ledge,” Sinan commanded. “Let the river take this rubbish out to the sea.”

The guards hefted Jalil's slack body up and carried him off a short distance. In the dark it seemed they walked toward a sheer wall of stone, but then Zahirah realized there was a gap of space before it. The wall rose up from behind a cliff of jutting rock. Sinan's men paused at this ridge and swung Jalil out. He hit the water that rushed some distance below, the smack of his weight swallowed up in an instant by the roar of the ocean current.

Zahirah blinked back her outrage and stared at the monster who was her father. She was horrified at what she saw, but she was also afraid. He turned a glare on her and she inched away from him, a retreat that brought a knowing glint of amusement to his coal-black gaze. “Tell me you are here to bring me good news, Zahirah. Is the Frank dead?”

She could not reply; her tongue seemed cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Sinan's answering chuckle was thin and malevolent. “I should have known you would not have the heart,” he accused in a brittle whisper. “You are weak. You are a woman. You disgust me.”

There was a time that Zahirah would have bristled at his condescension, when she would have risen to her own defense, when she would have explained how she had tried to carry out her mission, and insisted that she was not weak or deserving of his disdain. But it bothered her more that she could share the same blood, that she could be in any way like him. It bothered her how she had for so long wanted this cruel man's approval, and would have done anything to earn it.

It bothered her that she could fear him so much that she would rather betray the man she loved—risk losing him forever—than muster the courage to face Sinan's wrath. That was weakness. That was disgust.

“Father,” she said, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. “I have never asked you for anything, but tonight I have come here to beg of you a favor. I have come to ask you for my freedom from the clan, and for your vow that you will not harm Sebastian.”

Sinan's drawn face showed no reaction to her plea. His eyes stared flatly, his mouth a thin line within the graying wires of his beard. “You had both those things in your grasp, if you'd only done what you were sent to do. You failed, Zahirah. You knew what was at stake; you understood the price you would pay. And the price your Frankish lover would pay.”

“I don't care what you do to me,” she said, dropping to her knees before him. “Father, I am begging you. Please, do not make good your threat against Sebastian.”

“I don't make idle threats, Zahirah. You should know that.”

“You will kill him, then?” she choked, sick with desperation. “Can I say nothing to persuade you? Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

She could see no mercy in his unblinking stare, no trace of human emotion in the darkness looking down at her. His voice was as hollow as the abyss surrounding them. “You dishonor yourself in coming here to beg before me now. Moreover, you dishonor me.” He turned to walk away from her.

“No, Father,” Zahirah said, forcing herself not to quake. “You are the one lacking honor.”

A buzz of tension swelled around her as the other fida'i murmured amongst themselves, shocked, no doubt, to hear their vaunted leader challenged so recklessly. Sinan paused, then pivoted back to face her charge. He bore murder in his eyes, but Zahirah stared back with equal ferocity.

“You rule through blood and terror,” she accused. “You think that because you are feared—because with a snap of your fingers you can order another man's death—that you are respected. Well, you're not. Fear and respect are not the same.” She shook her head, feeling some of her own fear dissipate under the blaze of her rising anger. “The obedience you demand is nothing close to devotion or honor. You're no leader. You're a monster.”

The force of Sinan's ensuing blow knocked her down into the sand. She touched her bruised and ringing jaw, momentarily stunned. “You think you know what I am, girl? Let me tell you what you are.” He reached down and grabbed her chin, his brown bony fingers digging into her cheeks as he yanked her face back toward his. “You are nothing—my own creation. I made you out of dust and tears and the bleating cries of your own people as I trampled them under my heel.” Zahirah recoiled from the hateful words, her heart lurching as the horror of what he was telling her sank into her brain. “You beg now the way your mother begged me all those years ago. The way your father begged me to spare his wife and child. You're all weak, all worthless. I should have killed you along with the rest of them.”

“No,” Zahirah moaned, squeezing her eyes closed as if to blot out the nightmare that began to repeat as memory triggered by the brutality of Sinan's confession.

She saw it all now, the English pilgrim caravan lumbering across the desert toward Jerusalem, a journey she could not fully understand at just two years old. But she could understand the fear that descended on her family when a band of Saracen raiders spilled down from the crest of a hill to harry the group of Christian travelers. She understood the danger, the panic that set her mother screaming when her father was beaten and dragged away from the van. They had been crying, all of them, the adults pleading for mercy, the children shrieking.

One of the raiders seized Zahirah from her mother's arms, taking her onto the saddle of his sleek black horse. Zahirah had thrust her arms out but they were not long enough to reach her mother. Their fingers brushed, then separated, and the horse beneath Zahirah began to move. She screamed for her mother, turning her head to see her, watching through her tears as a mob of black-clad Saracens converged on the caravan and demolished it with their swords and clubs and burning torches. Zahirah heard the screams behind her. She heard her father shout in agony, heard her mother call her name from over the din.

“Gillianne!” she had cried. “No! Not my Gillianne!”

“Oh, God,” Zahirah sobbed, every muscle in her body sagging, her legs and arms gone boneless. Sinan released her, thrusting her away from him with a snarling chuckle.

She fell to her hands on the ground, weeping, not caring what happened to her next for she was already dead. Sinan was wrong; he had killed her all those years ago, when he killed her parents and the other pilgrims.

Sebastian had given her a chance to live again, to be something more than the lump of clay Sinan had manipulated into his own wicked design, but she had thrown that chance away. And she did not dare hope for another. She had nothing now, and she had no one to blame but herself.

Sinan was standing over her like a vulture eyeing carrion. She kept waiting for him to tear into her flesh, hoping he would, just to be done with the pain of all that was lost to her now, but that would have been an act of mercy, and he had none. Leastwise, not where she was concerned .

“Take her,” he ordered his bodyguards. “I may still have a way to use her.”

Zahirah did not fight the binding hands that clamped down around her arms like cuffs of iron. They hauled her up and dragged her after him like so much baggage, her feet slogging through the sand as they brought her to another section of the cave and bound her to await her fate.